Different Path
by Mariel1
Summary: Jaming's 10-year-old child does not want to become an inventor. The trouble is, Jaming himself doesn't know it yet. How will he react when he finds out?


"Different Path"

 _Author's Note:_ _Just a little spoiler alert; at this point in "Inventing the Future", I haven't formally introduced Dr. Jaming and Meredith's baby. In this story, the kid is about ten years old, and the name and gender are revealed, along with physical characteristics. This story doesn't really spoil much, though._

In some ways, Isaac was very much like his father. His hair was the exact same shade of blue, even though it didn't stick up in spikes the way Jaming's did. He had the same body type; lean, bordering on skinny. His dark eyes were intelligent, and his father took great pride in the fact that his son almost had a college reading level at the tender age of ten. The two often bonded over their mutual love of music, and Isaac had recently taken up the guitar as a hobby.

There were differences too, of course. Isaac had his mother's skin tone and a relatively normal set of teeth with only a very slight overbite. He preferred to keep his hair cropped short. He actually had _friends_ at school. And, though his father either didn't know it or refused to see it, he had almost no interest whatsoever in taking things apart, putting things together, and finding out how things worked.

Inventing bored Isaac to tears, and he knew that his father had begun to notice his inattentiveness when the two of them were working on a machine of some sort. Or, rather, Jaming would do the work while Isaac tried to keep up. These 'bonding sessions' usually ended with Jaming trying not to let on that he was growing impatient, and Isaac asking if he could go out and play instead. "All right, then," his father would say, sometimes with a slight huff through his nostrils, "but be home for supper."

Jaming was never cruel to his son, but Isaac felt the sting of these exchanges just the same. His father wanted him to be interested in technology, and as much as he tried to _make_ himself like it, he simply couldn't focus.

Isaac knew by some unspoken understanding that his father wanted him (maybe even _expected_ him) to become an inventor as well, but the thought of doing that for the rest of his life was so daunting that the boy began to suffer from stomach aches on a regular basis.

It wasn't until he attended wood shop at school that something changed. The project was a spice rack; birchwood, three shelves, with a chestnut finish. Initially, he had been a little afraid of the bandsaw, especially after the shop teacher had practically pounded it into their heads that the machine was _extremely_ dangerous, and that there was to be absolutely _no_ horsing around in that class.

As he used the bandsaw to cut with surgical precision along the thin pencil lines drawn on the wooden planks, however, that fear morphed into a very healthy respect, and as his project slowly came together, he felt a faint but powerful _'click'_ inside his head. It was as if a missing piece had been added to a puzzle, making the picture clear and erasing all confusion. This felt _good._ This felt _right!_ This was what he was meant to do. And, thinking of his father's hopes for him, he was ashamed.

Jaming knew nothing of this, but he did notice how distant his son was becoming. He suspected that it was the onset of puberty, but still, he was growing concerned.

One day, Isaac sat in the garage and quietly watched his father work. He was trying to get up the nerve to confess something that might be hurtful and disappointing, and he couldn't help but wonder. Would his father think less of him after this?

There was a metallic 'cricket' sound as Jaming applied a socket wrench to the wheel of some sort of mechanical jumble. Conversation was nonexistent that afternoon, and Jaming couldn't help but notice. Usually, his son would tell him about his day, or talk about some annoying girl who wouldn't stop following him around on the playground, to which Jaming would tell him that someday he might not mind so much, and Isaac would respond by sticking his tongue out and saying 'blecch'. Eventually, Isaac would ask if he could leave, and Jaming would reluctantly agree. Today, though, there had been no talking beyond the usual greeting.

Jaming was the one to finally break the silence. "You're very quiet today. Something on your mind?"

Isaac shook his head, scratching his nose and avoiding his father's eyes.

"Are you sure? You're usually quite the chatterbox," Jaming prodded a little, but kept his eyes on the hulking machine he was working on.

"Well..." Isaac trailed off, playing nervously with his fingers. This was a habit he had inherited from _both_ of his parents, though his father was the one who did it more frequently.

Jaming glanced over at him and waited patiently for him to speak.

Finally, Isaac just decided to say it quickly and get it over with. "Dad...I don't think I _want_ to be an inventor and work on machines."

Isaac's heart was in his throat, but Jaming's stomach _dropped._ The blue-skinned inventor's face fell for the very briefest of moments before he collected his wits and gave a hoarse acknowledgement. "I see..."

"Are you mad at me?"

"No," Jaming said a little too quickly, shaking his head and hiding the fact that this revelation really _did_ sting. "I'm not mad at you."

But Isaac was more perceptive than that. That brief moment of expression on Jaming's face had told him everything he needed to know. Even if Jaming didn't want to let on, his son's declaration had wounded him on a deep, personal level. "But you're disappointed..."

"Isaac..."

"I didn't want to tell you, because I didn't want to disappoint you..." the boy mumbled, spinning in his chair so that his back was to his father.

Jaming felt his heart turn over at the sight of his son's anguish, and he shut his own feelings away to be dealt with later. Putting down his socket wrench, he wiped the grease from his hands with a towel and went to his son. He put an arm around the boy's shoulders. Isaac turned and hid his face against his father's stomach, and Jaming held him close. "I'm _not_ disappointed. You've done nothing wrong. I think...maybe _I_ did."

"What do you mean?" Isaac sniffled a bit, but there was no way he would admit that he might be crying. He _was_ ten, after all!

Heaving a deep sigh, Jaming pulled up a chair and sat across from Isaac. "It never even occurred to me that you might not want to do what I do. And it _should_ have. It makes sense now. But...if you've chosen another path, then so be it. Whatever you choose to do, you're my _son._ And I'm proud of you."

And he was. Even though a part of him still wished that Isaac was even a _little_ bit interested in machinery! It had taken a lot of courage for Isaac to confess to his father, especially when it seemed like Jaming had put a great deal of pressure on him without even being aware of it.

Not knowing what to say, Isaac bit his lip and nodded, looking down at his shoes.

"I _am_ curious, though..." Jaming continued, "What _do_ you want to do?"

Isaac's answer was prompt, but his tone was a little uncertain. "I want to be a carpenter."

"Ah," A pleased smile graced Jaming's face. "Like your namesake."

"Huh?"

"Your grandfather. _He_ was a carpenter, too, if you'll recall. But your mother herself chose to become a seamstress instead. For a time, she switched over to making seashell jewelry to sell on Cap's old shop boat. Now she works with me, helping to design the new lab that will eventually be built here. From what she told me, she was the first child in several generations to do something different." Jaming rested his hand on Isaac's shoulder, and the warm weight of his work-calloused hand was comforting. "You don't have to do what _I_ do to make me proud. Understand?"

Isaac nodded, and finally cracked a smile. "Yeah."

Giving his son's shoulder a brisk pat, Jaming moved off and surveyed his garage with his fists on his hips. "You know, your mother and I built this garage. Funny story, that. I think we were flirting even then, without realizing it."

"Gross, Dad!" Isaac groaned.

Jaming snickered and went on as if Isaac hadn't interrupted. "I know a thing or two about carpentry myself, even though it isn't my favorite thing to do. We built this garage, and I built our house. It's been ages since those tools have even been used."

 _'What is he getting at?'_ Isaac wondered.

"You know, your mother _does_ have a birthday coming up. She's been talking about wanting a new coffee table. Would you like to make it?"

Isaac's face lit up and he jumped to his feet. "Can I? Really?"

Turning back to his son, Jaming held up a finger. "Only if you can keep it a secret until her birthday, and _only_ when I'm here to supervise. Is that clear?"

" _Yes!_ All _right!_ That's _awesome!_ " Isaac was practically jumping up and down.

* * *

As Jaming and Meredith were getting ready for bed, Meredith noticed that Jaming seemed to have something on his mind. When she asked him if everything was okay, though, all she got in return was a grunt indicating the affirmative. She knew that this was all she was likely to get from him until he was ready to talk, so she let the matter drop immediately.

After they had settled in for the night, she with a book and he simply staring up at the ceiling, he finally spoke. "Isaac told me something today."

"Oh?"

"Yes. He said he doesn't want to work with machines and so on. He would rather be a carpenter."

Meredith glanced over to gauge her husband's feelings on the matter, but his face gave away as little as his tone, and she asked, "Are you disappointed?"

"No..." Jaming shook his head, frowning. He was still trying to identify what he was feeling. It wasn't _disappointment,_ exactly, but it was still an odd, sad feeling. "I'm a little angry at myself for _having_ that assumption. He was afraid to tell me. I don't...ever want him to be afraid to come to me. I did that to him, and I didn't even know it. I just...never even considered the possibility that he might _not_ want to be an inventor. Have I really put that much pressure on him?"

Marking her place in the book, Meredith set it on the bedside table and stretched out on her side, facing him. She reached out and idly straightened the collar of his pajama top. "How did you react when he told you?"

She hadn't answered his question, which usually meant that she didn't have an answer yet. He shrugged. "Fine, I think. Carpentry is equally important, and it's always good to have a plan. I reminded him that his grandfather was a carpenter. He seemed quite relieved after we talked."

Meredith could see, though, that in spite of himself, Jaming _was_ just the tiniest bit crestfallen. She finally gave him her answer. "I think that if you _had_ put too much pressure on him, he wouldn't have felt comfortable enough to tell you. I know it wasn't what you had in mind...but creativity takes many forms, as you well know."

"Yes..." Jaming rolled over to face his wife, seeming to brighten a little. "In fact, I'm going to have to ask you to avoid the garage for the next week or so."

"Oh? What for?"

Now Jaming grinned and gave a mischievous wink before rolling over to face the other way. "Can't tell you, it's a secret."

"Oh, no you don't!" Meredith poked at his back. "Come on, I want to know!"

Snoring, obviously very fake, was the only answer she got. Rolling her eyes, Meredith picked up her book and opened it again. "Fine, be that way," she smirked, "I'll just ask Isaac."

There was a loud snort, and Jaming whacked her with his pillow. "Don't you dare!"

"Shh! We'll wake Isaac!" Meredith hissed, trying to laugh quietly.

Isaac's voice filtered through their closed door as he made his way to the bathroom for a drink of water. "Too late."


End file.
